


scars are just another kind of memory

by a_ufo_party



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But also, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining, Post Infinity War Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_ufo_party/pseuds/a_ufo_party
Summary: First, they were enemies. Then, they were lovers. Then, Loki was dead, and Sif was determined to bring him back.(Loki and Sif's relationship through the years)
Relationships: Loki/Sif (Marvel)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51
Collections: Mischief and Mistletoe 2019





	scars are just another kind of memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murdur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/gifts).



> Happy Mischief and Mistletoe! I really hope you like this fic. I was inspired by your prompts that said you enjoy seeing Sifki in different forms, sometimes messy, sometimes soft, sometimes dysfunctional, but drawn to each other despite it all. I also took your prompt of "post-canon adults" and combined it with an idea that has been in my Sifki Prompt Bank for a while. I really really hope you like this! Happy holidays <3

**400 years ago...**

“Thank you,” Sif murmured to the healer as they gathered the blood soaked cloths and potions and loaded them onto the waiting cart. 

The older woman nodded and pushed away the squeaky trolly, leaving Sif alone.

She lifted her right arm and extended it.

It hurt.

The serpentine gash which wound its way around her forearm to her palm had been stitched cleanly by the healer, elixirs had been applied, and whisky had been drunk, nevertheless it hurt.

But she would have a scar.

This thought made her smile a proud, almost smug sort of grin. Her first scar, her first decoration from a triumphant battle.

_ How mother will hate it _ . 

Rising to her feet with a grunt, she buttoned the front of her sleeveless white tunic and looked around the healing wing. There had been other warriors occupying the beds, but they had since been dismissed to their respective chambers. They had not been half as bad off as Sif.

_ They had not slayed half so many foes either, _ Sif thought to herself stubbornly. 

Her bare feet made a slight thumping as she limped down the cot lined corridor and into the hallway. All she wanted was to wash the blood and sweat from her hair, and sleep for the foreseeable future...maybe longer. Her injury had caused her to miss the feast and merriment which followed every battle, but that, too, was long over now, leaving the palace eerily silent. On nights like these, she felt small against the sheer magnitude of the castle. During the day, it housed enough servants and guests to make her forget just how massive the corridors really were. But at night, it felt felt like she was alone, the soul warrior stalking the halls, with only her shadow for company.

As she entered the wing that contained the warrior’s chambers, she was stopped by a figure silently stepping out of the corner and blocking her path.

“Loki!” She gasped, stumbling slightly backwards. “Gods’ sake…”

His hair was wet and curly, falling into his face as his eyes lingered on her arm. He had come from the bathhouse, as evident by the way his white undershirt clung to his damp skin. Wordlessly, his pale finger reached out to trace the scar.

Sif shivered at the feeling of his cool skin against the wound. 

“Are you pleased with yourself?” He spoke finally, a faint hoarseness in his tone. 

She bristled. “Indeed I am, milord.”

“You were foolish and reckless-”

“I secured our victory-”

“You secured fuel for your ego-”

Glaring, Sif took a step away from him and continued down the hall. She did not have time for this tonight. Normally, she would enjoy arguing with the younger prince, but her injury stung, and the loss of blood had left her rather dizzy. She swayed slightly as she walked. 

Loki’s footsteps caught up to her. In a moment, his arm was around her waist. 

“Thank you.” She muttered, reluctantly accepting the assistance. 

He nodded without meeting her eyes. 

They walked together until they had reached Sif’s chamber. Once there, she stepped out of his hold and crossed to her chest of drawers. As was always the case on evenings following a battle, her maid had set out clean bandages and a basin of water. 

Loki stayed in the doorway, watching her like a cat.

“What do you want, milord?” She sighed before splashing the lukewarm water onto her face. What was left in the basin turned a faint mauve from the dirt and blood. 

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here? To scold me more? Because I have had quite enough.” She took the roll of bandages into her hand and prepared to wrap her arm. “I have already told you I am, indeed, proud of my actions this day, and I shan’t repent-”

Then she felt a pair of cold hands cover hers. 

She released the bandages with a breath.

“Let me.” Loki murmured, leading her to her bed. She did not fight him on this either. When he spoke in this way, soft yet firm, she trusted him. 

Once she was seated, he knelt in front of her and unraveled the cloth.

Staring down at the young man before her, Sif felt her heart rate rising. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, or strained silence; Either way, each time his fingers brushed her skin as he bandaged her arm, she had to repress a shiver. 

After a moment, Loki spoke. “You know, when I saw the blood…when you turned to me after you had slain the general, and I saw the blood pouring from your arm...I thought that you were done for.”

“I am well, Loki.”

“But it was an unnecessary risk. Had we continued to attack the men, we would have, in time, weakened their-”

“And how many of our men would have fallen in the process? My risk was effective.”

“And what if you had died, Sif?” He snapped, looking up with impassioned eyes. “What then? Would the glory sustained in the moment been worth it?”

“Do not speak as though you have never done anything for the sake of heroism. We are Asgardian, it is in our blood-”

“Heroism is not recklessness-”

“Then it is a good thing I was not reckless.”

“You charged at a heavily armed warrior with no helmet and no shield!” He shouted.

“And I slayed him with two slices of my sword!” She shouted back.

They glared at each other as the words faded into the air.

Loki looked back down at the bandage, which now reached her wrist. 

“Had Fandral done what I did today…had Hogun...” Sif started.

“Don’t.”

“Why is it I am scolded for my risks, when the risks of men are celebrated?”

“I’ve no doubt your reckless showboating  _ was _ celebrated by our companions at the feast tonight-“

“I’m not talking about them, Loki.” Sif was exhausted, so she made no effort to reign in her words as the anger which burned through her veins mixed with the tightness in her chest. “Why are you here? Do you scold all of our friends when they take a chance in combat?”

“I am here because I have seen your pattern in battle as of late, and I fear if you continue in your reckless spiral you are damned-”

“You are here because the sight of me excelling in combat while you are confined to performing magic tricks in the sidelines makes your blood green with jealousy!” 

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. 

There was an instant change in the prince’s countenance. He drew away from her, sat up straight, and hid any emotion which had previously been on his face. 

Sif felt a stinging guilt. She knew the insult had been a sensitive one, and in truth, she did not even believe her accusation. Everything just felt so confusing and raw, she aimed for the place his armor did not cover. 

“Loki, I-”

“You’ve spoken the truth, no need for repentance.” His voice was cold and distant as his fingers continued to wind the bandage down her arm. In a moment, it was at her palm. There, he tied it gently but without any particular tenderness, before dropping his hands to his side and rising to his feet. “Sleep well, Lady Sif.” 

“I am sorry. My words were-” 

He lifted his hand to silence her, before bowing stiffly. And the next moment, he was gone, and Sif was alone.

Very alone.

The silence between her walls did nothing to distract her from the cloying guilt which clung thick in her throat. As she sat, she stared down at her carefully bandaged arm. Loki had not deserved this harshness, not from her. She had merely said what the other warriors whispered behind his back, but the words tasted bitter in her mouth. And as she reflected, she realized something which made her heart ache with icy regret.

If anything had motivated Loki’s behavior that night, it grew clearer by the moment that it was not jealousy...

* * *

**300 years ago...**

Loki’s finger traced the scars which decorated Sif’s bare torso. Each scar was a mark of a battle she conquered, a victory which belonged to her. In much the same way, she had claimed Loki and he had claimed her. The wars waged against each other, the surrenders and triumphs, claimed each for the other in a way no other partner could. They quarrelled and mistreated one another, but the magnetic energy which drew them together never ceased. 

The first night they’d spent together had been a drunken mistake.

The second, a sober one.

And then, the mistakes became intentional, and frequent.

Soon, Loki had memorized every scar on her body, every tender place where his kisses could undo her, every secret which words could not express. Likewise, Sif’s hands grew adept at melting the prince’s cool exterior, and weakening his stubborn resolve with whispered temptations. Theirs was an intense affair, which bypassed any shyness or politeness which most young relationships brought. They had known each other so long, spent hundreds of years in each others company, that there was not much use in a courtship. 

However, it was not until Loki found himself knocking on Sif’s chamber door at three in the morning motivated solely by the desire to sleep beside her that he admitted to himself that this thing of theirs was more than a mutually beneficial pastime. When he lay beside her, his heart felt calm and panicked at the same time; his hand felt empty until his fingers entwined with hers. He could deny it no longer: He cared for her. And as time went on, it became the norm that his own bed should remain empty each night, in favor of hers.

“Milord, I am trying to rest.” Sif’s muffled voice rose from the pillow where she lay. 

“I am not stopping you.”

“Your fingers are like ice.”

“Then warm them.” 

Turning onto her side to face him, Sif glared. However, she still took his hands in hers and placed them on either side of her neck. The chill sent a shiver down her spine. 

“Thank you, good Sif.”

“I shall not be good much longer should you continue to keep me awake-”

Leaning in, Loki cut off her complaint with a kiss. 

Their mouths fit together in a way no others could

Sif sighed against his lips, her own fingers trailing up his neck to stroke his hair gently. Dark hair, like her own: another way Loki had claimed her.

Though he had apologized profusely that fateful day when his jealousy-fueled prank had left her golden hair as dark as night, his guilt had faded as time went on. He preferred her hair dark, and in some shameful way, he enjoyed that she forever had a reminder of him on her body: a painless scar of his own, a thing which eternally bound them together. 

“I really must sleep, milord.” Sif pulled away, a begrudging smile on her lips. “You know as well as I that we leave for the Yule Hunt at dawn.”

“One more kiss and I shall be satisfied.” 

“You are never satisfied.”

“Hm, you are correct, it is not in my nature. But perhaps I have simply never had my fill of your lips…” trailing off, he placed a grazing kiss on her mouth, “of your body…” he moved down her neck.

Loki heard Sif’s breath hitch as he embraced her, eliciting a smirk from the god of mischief. 

However, the shieldmaiden was as determined as he was crafty. In a single, swift motion, Loki found himself being taken by the shoulders and flipped onto his back with Sif staring from above, her hand pinning his chest. 

“Milord, I will have my rest.” She growled wryly, her hair falling around her face and creating a curtain which enwrapped the pair. “Whether that rest happens with or without you in my bed is entirely up to you.” 

“I surrender,” lemented Loki, a dramatic expression painting his face. 

“And the terms of your surrender…”

“I shall restrain myself.”

“Or I shall have to restrain you...and don’t think I wouldn’t.”

“The lady is cruel.”

“Not so cruel, milord…” Leaning down, she slowly, painfully lifted his chin and kissed him. Then, while his eyes still remained closed, she sunk down to rest her head on his chest. “Goodnight, Loki.”

“Goodnight, my lady.”

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, Sif added, “If you wake me again I shall hunt you for sport in the morning.” 

“Oh? And what would you do with me once you’d caught me-” 

His words were cut off by a firm hand over his mouth.

* * *

**Late 2018...**

The past few days were a blur. 

She remembered carrying Loki’s body up the steps of the mountain temple, her arms aching, (her heart aching more.) She remembered pleading with the witches who dweled there until her voice grew thin, and drawing her sword when her pleas were met with indifference. She remembered the cold feeling of relief which flooded her veins when at last the witches nodded, “We shall see what we can do.” 

And she remembered collapsing in exhaustion on the temple floor as the coven carried away Loki’s body. 

That had been six days ago, though it felt more like a decade. 

The moment her ship had received the distress call from her people, she had rushed across space to aid them. Then, she had gone in search of Loki. They told her that he was dead. She told them that Gods did not die. Still, it was difficult to forget the way his skin had felt: cold and lifeless against her own. She could scarcely close her eyes without seeing the dark bruises which circled his neck, or the glassy indifference in his gaze. 

She had lost Asgard and she had lost Loki: two things she had once thought would be constants in her life. Though, throughout her journey to the realm of witches, she tried to remind herself that she had lost Loki long before his death; they all had. She just never could believe it. 

The room the witches had provided for her was small and damp, tucked away at the back of the temple. A single, wooden cot sat in the corner, and a frost-blurred window filled it with a drafty chill. Still, this was not the primary cause of her sleepless nights. For those long six days, she occupied her time hunting in the woods (she prepared her own meals, as the witches never seemed to eat) and training in the courtyard. But these activities did little to keep her mind from wandering. Especially when every day brought new sounds, new chanting, and new flashes of light from the back of the temple. They were coaxing his soul back into his body, or so she had read in her research about the ritual. But there was a nagging fear at the back of her mind which prodded, “What if he does not wish to return?”

On the morning of the seventh day, her question was answered when one of the witches woke her at dawn. 

“Does he live?” These were the first words out of Sif’s mouth as she rose to her feet.

“He has already lived.”

Glaring, Sif tried to suppress her impatience, “You know what I ask.”

Without replying, the witch extended a gnarled finger and beckoned her to follow.

Led through the winding halls of the temple, she felt her stomach sink with each step. It seemed too quiet, too calm…

They arrived at the furthest chamber and walked through the drape-covered doorway.

The witches who crowded the room parted slightly, revealing the stone altar. There, she at last saw Loki.

His body lay, pale and lifeless as ever.

_ No...no... _

Covering her mouth with her hand to suppress the cry in her throat, she stumbled backwards into the wall. An overwhelming combination of disappointment and grief flooded through her veins.

The witches murmured and hissed, crowding her on all sides and pushing her towards him again. 

“Please, I cannot...I do not…” She pleaded aimlessly, fighting against their prodding hands. However, her heartache made her weak. Once again, she stood beside the altar, beside Loki, with nothing to do but stare helplessly.

His body was bare, his clothes had been discarded in favour of a thin sheet which hung across his hips. Decorating his torso were scars, seemingly freshly made and consequently stitched as crimson blood was visible. 

“What have you done to him?” asked Sif, her voice low.

No one replied.

“Answer me!” She growled, reaching for the dagger at her waist.

The sea of witches parted and one walked forward, a serpentine blade in hand. “We have done nothing you did not ask of us. The ritual is nearly complete.”

“You have quartered his body like a pig…”

“How else was his soul to get back in?” 

Everything seemed to freeze at these words.

“Then...he is…”

The witch took a step forward, reaching out her hand. “He shall return to this realm, in time. Now there is only to address the matter of his memories.”

Unmoving, the warrior felt a prickle of anxiety. “What of his memories?”

“Would you like him to know the life he previously led?”

“What sort of question is that? Why would I come all this way-”

“If we complete the ritual in its entirety he shall remember. If we revive him now, he will be himself, without the burdens of his past. His soul will remain the same, but his life will be untainted.”

“His memories are not yours to take.”

“As his soul was not ours to give?” She cocked her head with an air of superiority. “We can complete the ritual. However, the final step requires another…”

“What must I do?” 

* * *

Sif thought she could become addicted to the rise and fall of his chest.

For hours after the ritual was completed, he slept. She did not wake him. Instead, she sat beside the cot on the stone floor and listened to him breathe. Each breath seemed to melt away the agony of the past, each sigh said,  _ “The nightmare is over.” _

She missed him. Her very bones ached at the sensation of sitting beside him and not speaking to him, not holding him. But there was a comfort in the fact that he still slept.

_ The calm before the inevitable storm… _

How would he react when he learned of his death? How would he react when he knew it was she that brought him back, that her blood ran through his veins? 

The latter troubled her most. To complete the ritual, the witches had drawn a sharp knife across her palm, drawing blood in a gushing stream.

_ “You who have known him all his life, you whose blood flows with the memories of his life and death,” _ the elder witch murmured as the blade pierced her skin, _ “shall return to him the life he fled, and bring him back to his reality.” _

Her blood was dripped into a basin, and incantations were muttered above it. Then, they had cut Loki’s palm in the same way and poured the blood into the wound. Through her blurry, weakened gaze, Sif had watched the coven reach their hands over his body and chant in a foreign tongue. And when she saw him again, the color had returned to his cheeks.

Her eyes wandered from his chest to his hand, where the bandage still bound him. 

Many hours had passed since the wound was made; fresh materials ought to be applied. With fingers as gentle as a breath, she lifted the cloth from his skin and began to unwind it. 

He stirred.

Hands falling to her side, she suppressed a shuddering gasp.

Slowly, painfully, the prince opened his eyes. They lingered on the ceiling, confusion and worry reflected in the deep green. 

“Loki…”

He turned his head and winced. 

“Don’t, your neck has not healed-” she started.

“Sif?”

His voice, deep and raspy, ran like a wave through Sif’s body. It was a voice she’d know anywhere, a voice she had heard imbued with every emotion, spoken against her skin, inside her mind, across the battlefield. It was a voice she never thought she would hear again.

Cold relief took hold of her chest. “Yes, it is I.” 

“What...where am I?” Each word sounded painful, as if he took great effort to form them. 

“The realm of witches.” 

“Why?” 

“I shall tell you everything in full when you are rested.” 

Closing his eyes, he nodded and leaned back against his pillow. “We were attacked.”

“Indeed.” 

“Thanos?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Is Thor…”

“Your brother lives.”

She watched the tension in his shoulders fall. 

“How long ago was that?” A panicked edge twinged his voice.

“As I said, Loki, I shall tell you everything in time.”

“I remember nothing after the attack.”

“You were incapacitated.”

“...and the witches revived me?”

“Indeed.” 

He seemed to accept this answer. Silence fell over the tiny room and Loki’s breath began to slowly even out.

Again, he spoke, this time softer. “My heart feels...heavier.”

“It has not beat in some time. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how it feels.”

“How is it meant to feel?”

Unable to stop herself, Sif reached out her hand and placed it on his chest. Beneath her fingers beat a heart, steady and strong. Each beat reaffirmed to her that her old companion was alive. “Milord, nothing feels amiss-”

Suddenly, she felt a hand over her own, a cold, familiar hand. 

“Sif…” He breathed, eyes once more open and gazing up at her.

“Yes?” 

“Thank you.” He did not yet know why he thanked her, but the words sounded so ernest that Sif accepted them with a soft smile.

“Rest.” She replied, sliding her hand off of his chest and turning it upward to clasp his. “We have time.”

So Loki drifted off, his heart still beating, his soul still earthbound, his hand still in hers.

* * *

**One week later...**

“Tell me everything. I want to know.” Loki said once he and Sif were seated on a cliffside overlooking the misty drop-off which surrounded the witch’s mountain dwelling. 

Many days had passed before he had felt strong enough to leave the bed. Throughout those days, Sif attended to him with such goodness and care he found himself forgetting they were no longer the lovers they had been in their youths. Mortals had lived and died since they last shared a bedchamber, or even a kind word, and yet the touch of her hand as she replaced his bandages was as familiar to him as ever. She had slept each evening on the floor beside him, and Loki found himself staying awake so that he could watch over her in the night, so that he could reaffirm that she was, indeed, beside him. The intimacy of a shared bedchamber was something he had never imagined returning to with the lovely warrior. He only wished the circumstances were different.

“First tell me what you know.” Sif replied, her dark eyes staring off into the foggy nothingness before them. 

“I know that Thanos attacked. I know that many Asgardians fell. Thor was taken hostage, and I attempted an attack with my dagger-”

“Against a Titan?” Sif cut him off, her eyes large and horrified.

“Indeed.”

“Are you mad?”

“It has been suggested,” he smirked. “I will admit it was a rash decision, I had no alternatives.”

“I hope you never again have the audacity to refer to me as reckless...a dagger against a titan…” 

“And what, oh wise woman, would you have had me use?”

“Are you not a magic user?” 

“I did cloak the dagger-”

“You are a fool.”

“Yet I am still alive to tell the tale.” He grinned.

Sif’s teasing smile faded from her lips.

“Sif, what is it?”

“What...what else do you remember?”

“My attack failed. Thanos took hold of my neck…” the memories faded into blurry darkness. 

“Loki…” She spoke carefully. “I must tell you...though I know not how-”

“Speak, Sif.”

“You did not survive the battle that day.” She flinched, as if expecting her statement to be met with outrage

But Loki felt none. He was not so quick to anger as he was in his youth. Time and mistakes had softened him, and taught him to accept the path the fates dealt him.

“I thought as much.” He nodded.

Sif’s head turned, her face a mixture of relief and confusion. “You did?”

“Why else would I awaken in the realm of witches with scars across my chest and no memory of the past months?” Lifting a hand to his chest, he lightly fingered the place where the scar rose above his collar. “You forget who introduced you to the secrets of Asgard’s library. I too have read the ancient texts, I know of this ritual.” 

“Then you know…” trailing off, she lifted her right hand, where a scar decorated her palm.

In reply, he lifted his hand where its twin resided. 

Their palms were close, nearly touching, and Loki felt his hand tremble with anticipation. However, in a moment, Sif let her arm fall to her side.

As the nervous glimmer faded from her eyes, it was replaced with curiosity. “Do you...did you see Valhalla?”

He chuckled. “I’m flattered you think I should end up there.”

“Surely you did not-”

“No, good Sif, I confess I have no memory of where my soul fled.” 

“Well, it is here now.” 

“And my only question is why.” It was the question which had plagued his mind since he had awoken. What plans did Asgard have for him that they should send Sif to revive him? Perhaps he was needed in the battle against Thanos, perhaps some prophecy required translation. He dared not hope it was motivated by anything else…

“What do you mean?”

“I am not so proud as to assume I was revived for my company. Tell me who it was that sent you on this mission and what I must do now.” 

Cautiously, Sif’s brow furrowed, an unreadable secret in her eyes. She took in a breath.

“No one sent me.”

Slowly, achingly, a painful stab of hope spread through his chest. “Oh?”

“I...I brought you here on my own volition, for my own reasons.”

“And what reasons are those?” 

She made no reply, only stared at the space in front of her with a look of conflict.

“Sif?” 

“You...you have the silvertongue, Loki, not I.”

“Say it plainly then. What task would you have me do?”

“Live.” The word fell from her lips quickly, in a strained, flinching tone. The moment it was in the air, she turned her face so that the prince could not see her expression.

“Live?”

“Indeed. This is the only task I have for you, milord. Live.”

In his life, Loki had rarely found himself at a loss for words. However, as he sat beside Sif on the cliff’s edge, no words would form in his mouth. All that he felt (gratitude, hope, confusion, disbelief, affection) could not be expressed in a pretty sentence. So, instead, he cautiously reached out his hand and entwined his fingers in Sif’s.

With a shuddering breath, she turned to face him. “Loki…”

“Peace, good Sif.” 

“I have not known peace since I met you, milord.” The familiar teasing edge perfumed her voice despite the tears which shimmered in her eyes. 

“And yet you travel across the nine realms to bring Chaos back to life?”

“As you yourself once said, I am a reckless fool. My soul was not made for calm waters.” 

Her gaze, gentle yet passionate, seemed to stare into Loki’s very core. The soft, yet violent brown of her eyes made him feel he was home for the first time since Asgard’s destruction. And her lips, blushed and tempting, called out to him like a siren song.

Unable to resist a moment longer, Loki bridged the gap between their faces and kissed her: first gently, then, when she responded, with all the fervor he felt. 

Her hands rose to cup his cheek and rest against his chest, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. 

And in that moment, everything felt right. As they embraced, his heart beat rhythmically beneath her fingers, each beat filling his veins with _ her. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, comments are always very appreciated. Happy holidays! And thank you for making the Sifki fandom my very favorite community <3


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